


Hoop Dreams Are Made Of This

by Aleta123



Category: Bridget Jones's Baby, Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 22:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aleta123/pseuds/Aleta123
Summary: Mark and Bridget are the talk of Grafton Underwood. This movies universe story comprises three chapters and is set during Bridget Jones’s Baby. It contains spoilers for all three films, including references to deleted scenes.  My notes are slightly story-spoilery so best to read at the end.Disclaimer: All credit to Helen Fielding for her creation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Wednesday 24 June**

  
**6.33 am. My flat.**

Opened my eyes and looked up into his face. There he was doing it again. Was he using thought vibes too?

“Good morning,” Mark Darcy smiled down at me.

“It’s morning? It was evening a few minutes ago.” Wanted to cry from exhaustion. It had been a tough night.

“Poor darling. Our son is voracious.” He bent down and kissed me.

“He’s permanently attached to my breasts. Just like his father.”

“That’s my boy,” Mark said proudly. “And he’s thriving. You’re a wonderful mother.”

His words warmed me. “Here’s the flip side of motherhood: my hair is a constant mess, my breasts are the size of Australia, I smell of off milk all the time, I look like Mr Blobby and my hormones keep staging a coup d'etat all over my body.”

“And you have never looked lovelier.” He nuzzled my neck. “Or sexier.”

“I look like crap! You will never need Viagra, Mark.”

He laughed and kissed me again.

Mmmm. Wish I wasn’t so tired because we’ve got this shagging-as-quietly-as-possible-so-as-not-to-wake-the-baby malarkey down to a tee.

Three months of living together under our belt. Three months of learning something new about each other every day.

However, some things don’t change. After all these years, Mark still folds his underwear before coming to bed. But that’s Mark – and I love him just as he is.

Funnily enough, he’s not so fussy about my knickers - seems to find flinging them anywhere after he pulls them off a huge turn-on.

“I’d better get ready for work,” he said.

I touched his cheek. “Will you be OK? You didn’t get much sleep either.”

“Adrenaline will get me through the day.” He reached for the hand on his face and brought it to his lips. “Don’t forget we’ve got our first house viewing on Saturday at noon.”

“How can I forget when you’re constantly reminding me?”

“With good reason, Bridget.” He pulled back the duvet and got out of bed. “I’m going to shower and look in on William. You rest.”

Heart swelling, I watched him walk out of the room.

Mark and me and our baby.

Here.

Still marvel at my new normal. What’s that phrase Jack says? Something about a dime . . . Life can turn on a dime. That’s the one. Because it has.

Two years ago, I was single, Mark was married to thingamajig and we seemed to be over for good.

Now, we’re raising our three-month-old son together and house-hunting for a new family home. What’s more, if I know Mark, and I do, he’s going to ask me to marry him. It’s a matter of when, not if. He’s probably debating how to make it special.

So tired. So little sleep. Going to rest my eyes for five minutes . . .

 

**7.01 am**

Gaaaaah! Is that the time? Mark will be leaving soon. Should really start planning our wedding while I wait for him to propose.

**7.02 am**

Mrs Darcy.

**7.03 am**

Mrs Jones-Darcy.

**7.04 am**

Wonder if I can get the guy from Starbucks in Balham to sing at our wedding? He’s not bad.

**7:05 am**

As I’m going to be a non-Smug Married soon, must start looking for a gown and a church and book somewhere suitably stunning for the reception. Will look into marquee wedding venues today.

Want to ask Mark if, in addition to Tom, Jack can also be godfather – still feel a bit bad about how things turned out for him.

One minute, he’s an almost-expectant father with a 97 percent Qwantify match to the mother-to-be. The next minute, it’s all gone with life turning on a dime in Mark Darcy’s favour.

Have to admit, self would’ve been devastated if Jack had turned out to be Will’s father – not for me, but for Mark. 

Despite his vow to love the baby as he loves me, I would have felt guilty every day, undeserving of his love even though I’d done nothing wrong.

Unless not checking expiry date of dolphin-friendly condoms is a crime worthy of eternal guilt.

But now that carelessness has given me Mark and Will, hurrah for not checking expiry date of dolphin-friendly condoms!

Am being even more environmentally friendly now because we shag au naturel, so to speak. No more condoms. Would love to give Will a little brother or sister, but there’s no pressure. If it happens, it happens.

Our bouncing little miracle has worked miracles for me and Mark - the yo-yo years are over. We are finally where we always should have been. It all feels so right. 

It’s like Elizabeth Bennet said: the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end.

Yesterday, on a whim, read an old August entry from last year. It was as foreign to me as speaking Finnish. Was that really my life back then? Everything’s so different now . . .  

********

**Monday 31 August**

**  
8.42 pm. My flat.**

Oh shit. Fucketty, fucketty, shit. Bugger. 

**8.43 pm**

Bugger.

**8.44 pm**

Shit. A day off work and I still didn’t do what I need to do.  

**8.45 pm**

Fuck it. Pringles needed. And garlic bread. Why do I fancy porridge too?

**8.46 pm**

Correction. The baby fancies porridge. Not me.

**9 pm**

Just eaten the Pringles and half a packet of custard creams while I wait for the garlic bread to cook.

**9.15 pm**

Yummy. Love the lovely garlic bread. Wish I could wash it down with some wine. Berating self for putting that last bottle of Chardonnay in the recycling bin – should’ve kept the bottle to sniff from deeply so it feels like I’m drinking vicariously.

**10 pm**

News At Ten on ITV. Feel like Julie Etchingham and the bongs are announcing the News At Bridget rather than latest Putin scandal and US Open results.

BONG! Bridget Jones, formerly the last barren husk in London, is pregnant.

BONG! Bridget Jones still hasn’t told the two possible fathers.

BONG! Bridget Jones could call Mark Darcy and tell him the awful truth, but Bridget Jones doesn’t want him to think her a drunken slag.

BONG! Bridget Jones doesn’t want to hurt Mark Darcy again.

BONG! Bridget Jones is a big, fat, scaredy-cat. 

Saturday’s meet-up at King’s Cross turned into an emergency summit. Lovely day with Shazzer and Tom despite the baby drama. Tom showed us pictures of his Colombian baby on his phone. We oohed and aahed over the gorgeous child and then I decided it was time to tell them everything.

  
Conversation went like this.

  
ME **:** I’m up the duff.

SHAZZER: You’re fucking pregnant!

TOM: You’re fucking someone?

SHAZZER: I was right!

SHAZZER and TOM: Who’s the father?

ME: Fathers.

SHAZZER and TOM: Fathers?

ME: I shagged two men a week apart. The baby could be either of theirs because I used very old dolphin-friendly condoms.

TOM: Oh dear. If you were a chav with rotting teeth, you could go on Jeremy Kyle.

ME: Some would say it’s more Jerry Springer.

SHAZZER: How far along are you?

ME: Around 12 weeks.

SHAZZER: Puppet guy?

ME: Possibly. Yes.

TOM: Who’s puppet guy?

SHAZZER: Hot American with a big dick that Bridge shagged at a music festival. Has he called? Do you know who he is yet?

ME: Miranda from work found him. His name’s Jack Quant – he’s some kind of internet billionaire with an online dating site called Qwantify. Wait - are you googling him?

TOM: Too fucking right I am. Hot, American billionaire with a big dick? All the good ones are straight these days.

SHAZZER: And straight up Bridge’s vagina.

ME: Oi! My vagina was on the verge of retirement until a few weeks ago.

TOM: Who’s father number two?

ME: (nervous laugh) It’s a funny story.

SHAZZER: (suspiciously) Who’s father number two?

ME: (deep breath) You’re not going to believe this, but at the christening of—

SHAZZER: You fucking shagged Mark Darcy!

TOM: When the Tom-cat’s away, Bridget will play.

ME: (incredulous) How did you know I slept with Mark?

SHAZZER: He was alone, you were alone. He has a dick, you have a vagina. Bridget, this scenario doesn’t require Mensa membership.

TOM: If I’d been here, I would have gone to William Hill and put a tenner on that shag. Easiest money I would’ve made.

SHAZZER: Only a tenner?

TOM: So. How was he? How was it?

ME: A. May. Zing, as Miranda would say. We couldn’t get enough of each other. It was as if we were making up for lost time; five years apart went into that one night of shagging.

TOM: Bet you were walking even funnier the next day.

ME: Oi, you bitch! I do not walk funny. I have a distinctive walk.  

SHAZZER: After all these years, I still can’t reconcile the Mark Darcy who’s got a poker up his arse with Mark Darcy the sexpert.

ME: Well, it’s true. It’s so good with him that I fake not having an orgasm.

SHAZZER: Why?

ME: So he’ll carry on shagging me until he thinks I’ve come.

SHAZZER: Hmmmm. Must try that with Fergus.

TOM: Just as well Daniel Cleaver’s dead because you probably would’ve shagged him too and then I definitely would’ve had to sign you up for Jeremy Kyle. 

SHAZZER: So while we were dancing with the kids downstairs, you were upstairs making one with Mark.

ME: Possibly. Yes.

TOM: Molly’s godparents skipped her christening party to have a party of their own. Honestly, you horny heterosexuals have no class!

SHAZZER: But Bridge, he's a married man.

ME: He’s divorcing wife number two.

TOM: Two divorces and a broken engagement? He should quit women and go gay.

SHAZZER: You never said a word to me about Mark.

TOM: Or me.

SHAZZER: Did you tell Jude?

ME: No.

SHAZZER: You didn’t tell any of us about bonking Mark?

ME: All three of you made me swear we were over for good because none of you believed me. Five years later, I shag him silly. So much for ‘over for good’. I was trying to limit the number of times I’d have to confess and then hear ‘I told you so’.

TOM: But I did tell you so! Sweetheart, you have Mark Darcy-itis; there’s no known cure for your condition. 

SHAZZER: And I bloody told you so too. I’m surprised you’re not back together. You obviously still have feelings for each other.

ME: He wants to, but my head’s saying no. How can we when nothing’s changed? That’s why I left him a note and scarpered.

SHAZZER: Oh dear. Poor Mark. So your head’s saying no, what’s your heart saying?

ME: Can’t think about that now. The baby is my priority.

SHAZZER: But if it’s Mark’s, you’ll have to think about it.

TOM: Poor ol’ gherkin-up-the-bum Mark Darcy. But bloody phwoar! Look at this, Shaz. Check out those abs! I could climb him like Mount Everest.

SHAZZER: Wow! Abs, money and a big puppet too.

TOM: Tell us, Bridget, what was it that initially attracted you to the billionaire Jack Quant? 

SHAZZER: Was it his face or body? Big dick?

ME: Fuuuuuuuuuuck. How is this my life?

********

**7.43 am**

My insatiable sex-god has returned to the bedroom suited and booted for work. Mmmm.

“You were out like a light so I decided not to wake you while I got dressed.”

Mark walked over to me, cup of coffee in hand. He placed it on the bedside table and dropped a peck on my forehead. “He is the most beautiful boy in the world. I wish I could stay here with both of you.”

“I know,” I beamed at him. “Off you go. I have an important date to keep with Judge Judy, Phillip Schofield and Holly Willoughby in a couple of hours.”

He pointed at the coffee. “Drink it while it’s hot,” he ordered. “I’ll call.”

“You always do.”

“By the way, I know we’ve got Tom, but I’ve been thinking, maybe we should also ask Jack if he’d like to be William’s godfather.”

I smiled. “You really are very, very, very nice. It’s a lovely thought.”

“Besides, with a billionaire for a godfather, our son will be the most popular kid in school.” Mark glanced at his watch, sighed and kissed me goodbye.

“Miss you already,” I said.

“I miss you too,” he replied and headed out the door.

**  
2.55 pm**

Looking at wedding gowns again while my beautiful son is asleep. Did this years ago. Even got as far as trying on dresses, but then everything went tits-up and . . . Well.

What a difference a family makes.

Ever since his paternity leave ended, Mark has been on a work-life balance mission. It’s still not perfect, but it’s a vast improvement. Real difference now is I know we are his priority, his world.

Previously, often felt a distant second - mistress to wifey-work.

Wow, this is a possibility! Ivory crepe, crepe waistband, full A-line skirt. Really liking the elegance of this type of Grace Kelly . . .

Ooooh, mobile ringing!

Oh, it’s Mum.

Shit.

Bracing myself.

“Hello, Mum.”

“Hello, darling. How’s my adorable grandson?”

I smiled. “Adorable. He’s doing really well. Wait until you see him, he’s grown so much.”

“You can’t beat breast milk, I’ve always said it. I remember when I was breastfeeding you. Of course you were obstinate and didn’t latch on well. You made my nipples ever so sore; they cracked and ended up looking like glaciers in Antarctica. I had to get some—”

Yuck.

“Mum,” I interrupted. “Don’t forget we’re coming up a week on Saturday.”

“Oh, the little darling! I can’t wait to see him. Of course I knew he was Mark’s and not that American’s all along. I said as much to Una. I knew Mark’s little British soldiers would have done their duty and won the egg-and-sperm race. Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!”

Oh holy Jesus! I had to stop her.

“Mum—”

“I told Daddy so too. I said Mark’s sperm would have swum upstream and into your fallopian tube long before that American’s managed an inch up your vagina. The Yanks are always tardy, Bridget; late to World War I, late to World War II and late to fertilizing your egg. Do you—”

Fucking hell.

“Mum,” I interrupted again. “How’s Dad?”

“He’s fine. A bit upset about his gladioli so he’s spending more time in the garden. Think he said something about yellowing leaves, but I had to rush to a parish council meeting so I didn't catch it all.”

“I’ll speak to him about the garden when we come up. Tell him I said ‘hello’ please.”

“Of course I will. Bridget, Una and I were talking yesterday . . .”

Aha. Here it comes.

“When are you and Mark getting married?”

“Mum—”

“Margot Pennyfeather brings it up at every parish council meeting. ‘How’s your single-mother daughter Bridget, Mrs Jones?’ she says. ‘Still unwed? Still not married to Mark Darcy after all these years?’ Awful woman putting on airs and graces about my family when her daughter works in a bingo hall.”

“Mum—”

“She should also concentrate on getting her jams to set. That last batch was runnier than a weeping wound.”

“That’s yucky. Look, Mum—”

“Darling, Mark’s the father of my grandson. Doesn’t he want to make an honest woman of you?”

“Mum—”

“You’re living together, aren’t you? You’ve even bought new furniture together. That new sofa is much bigger than the old one. Plenty of room for you and Mark to play hide the sausage. I daresay that's why you bought it.”

“Mum! I can’t believe—”

“He’s divorced now, isn’t he?”

“Mum—”

“You love each other, don’t you?”

“I have to go, Mum. Will’s crying. See you soon!”

Urgh.

Mum is unbelievable. She got it right when she set me up with Mark Darcy all those years ago and she's spot on about my old sofa; it was way too small for shagging.

We discovered this in the most frustrating of ways.

The very next day, Mark purchased a Luca Glider nursing chair for me and the roomier sofa for us. He paid the furniture company an extra £140 for an express delivery, despite it not being part of their policy.

We only had to wait three days before that sofa was well and truly christened.

Wonder if the Darcys have said anything to Mark about marriage?

Our first trip back to Grafton Underwood since Will’s birth is going to be fun with a capital fuuuuuuuuuuck.

**3.35 pm**

Gaaaaaah! Can hear mobile ringing and I’m in the loo. Am trying to rush my wee, but wee is not cooperating.

**5 seconds later**

Wee is still on strike and refusing to leave bladder. Phone is still ringing.

**5 seconds later**

No wee.

**5 seconds later**

Come the fuck on, wee!

**5 seconds later**

Oh shit! Why can’t I wee? Why? Whyyyyyy? Debating whether to come off the toilet and answer the phone.

**10 seconds later**

Pulled up my knickers and that’s when I felt the bloody wee coming out. Hastily dropped knickers again and sat back down on the toilet just in time. However, phone has stopped ringing.

Typical!

**3.41 pm**

Missed call from Mark. Will’s still asleep – phone didn’t wake him up. Hurrah! Can go back to researching fabulous wedding dresses and venues and concentrate on the . . .  

Ooh, mobile ringing! It’s Mark Darcy again.

“What took you so long to answer?” he irritably demanded. “I was worried something bad had happened. I was just about to drop everything and come home.”

“I was in the loo!” I cried.

“Bridget, they’re called mobile phones for a reason. These devices can be used over the widest of areas with no restriction whatsoever on movement. In other words, you can take it in the toilet with you, darling.”

“I know that! I was just so desperate for a wee, I ran in there without it. Anyway, Mum rang . . .” Will conveniently forget to mention that our marital status is the talk of Grafton Underwood. “She can’t wait to see us all Saturday week.”

“Mother said the same thing. She’s already ordered a hamper from Fortnum & Mason. What’s our son doing?”

“Will’s in the land of nod. I’ve been busy looking at Grace Kelly-inspired dresses for our . . . new house.”

“Oh, I see. Actually I don’t. You’re looking for Grace Kelly-inspired dresses for our future home?”

Desperate to cover, I tried diversion.

“Mark, ignore me. I’m tired and talking gibberish. I should probably catch up on some sleep.”

“Yes, you should. You’ve been doing far too much. Leave everything to me tonight – apart from his feeding, obviously. I’ll bring in something for us to eat.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“And darling?”

“Yes?”

“I’m counting down the seconds until I’m with you both again. A night on the sofa with my two worlds is my idea of heaven.”

“You social butterfly, you.”

“Play your cards right and I may even throw in some sex.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Friday 26 June**

**4.05 pm. My flat.**

Zapping through TV channels while adorable three-month-old is asleep. Do babies dream? And if they do, what do they dream about?

Will never forget the day Mark and I brought Will home from hospital. Everything he did scared the shit out of us and everything he didn’t do scared the shit out of us.

We spent that first day and night panicking our shattered arses off. While Will slept, Mark was glued to his side. He went as far as using a little mirror to constantly check our son’s breathing.

He’s down to one mirror-check a day now.

Desperately need to find a wedding planner. There’s too much to do. Will speak to Jude.

Have also been scrutinising some marquee wedding venues. Can’t decide if we should marry in London or Grafton Underwood. Also an option to compromise and look at a venue between the two.

Read another old entry from last year – this time from October. Now that the focus is so much on our future together, looking at even the most recent past is like the difference between summer and winter.

********

**Saturday 24 October**

**11.03 pm. My flat.**

Watching anything on telly to take my mind off baby drama and rampaging hormones.

Four months along - still haven’t told Mark and Jack about Mark and Jack. Had an opportunity with Mark earlier tonight, but blew it.

Again.

**  
7.40 pm**

Watching Strictly Come Dancing and eating Pringles. The baby wants Pringles. Lots of Pringles. So grateful to Dr Rawlings for helping me out at the scan this week. If only both men weren’t so deliriously happy about the baby.

Seriously think I underestimated the . . .

Ooooh! Knock on the door. Wonder if it’s Jack again?

“Who is it?”

“Bridget, it’s Mark. The door was open.”

HOLY SHIT.

Opened my door and tried to smile confidently. “Hi,” I said, standing aside to let him in.

“Hello.” He stepped in and removed his coat. Underneath, he had on navy chinos and a black polo neck jumper. 

PHWOAR!

Despite feeling stressed and guilty about my baby drama situation, couldn’t help reacting. He looked so hot and horny.

Not good. Not good at all. Am absolutely gagging for sex. Top of the ‘why being a pregnant singleton sucks’ list is there’s no one around to shag the living daylights out of you. 

“Do you want to . . . ?” I gestured at the coat rack.

“Thank you.” He hung up his coat and surveyed my flat. I followed a step or two behind him.

“I like what you’ve done with the place. Very nice,” he said.

“Thank you.” Needing to occupy myself, I asked if he wanted a coffee.

“Yes, please.” He took a seat on the sofa.

I walked over to the kitchen, filled the kettle and placed individual filter cups on mugs.

While the coffee dripped, I scripted my big baby drama reveal in my head. ‘Mark, there’s something I have to tell you. It all started with dolphin-friendly condoms . . .’

Right. Got it. Hashtag letsdothis!

I picked up the mugs, walked over to the sofa and held out his coffee.

“Thank you.”

As he took the mug, our fingers touched and we locked eyes. Instant shock waves all over my body: my breath quickened, my skin started tingling and my nipples hardened.

I sat as far away from him as possible.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Sorry to drop in without warning, I was in the area. Well, not quite in your area, but I was within a few miles of Borough. Twelve or so miles. Ealing, to be exact. Thought I’d pop down and see how you are.”

I blew on my very weak coffee, pleased he’d taken the time and trouble to make the journey across the river. Knowing Mark, he'd done so for a reason. Maybe he’ll also take pity on me later and shag me really hard.

“How are you feeling?”

HORNIER THAN A HERD OF BILLY GOATS.

“I’m OK, thanks.”

“You look well,” he stated after scrutinising my face. “Better than well. Actually, you’re glowing.”

THAT’S BECAUSE I’M FUCKING HORNY. 

His eyes travelled down. “You're in fine fettle. Very healthy,” he said to my boobs. “Pregnancy suits you.”

SO DOES BEING SHAGGED HARD.

“Thank you, Mark,” I said with more calmness than I felt.

We drank in silence, watching as one glitzy couple spun around on the dance floor.

Told self it’s time. Got to open up about Jack. ‘Mark, there’s something I have to tell you. It all started with dolphin-friendly condoms . . .’

Hashtag letsdothis!

Took a deep breath, but just as I was about to start my speech, Mark spoke.

“Pregnancy truly is a miracle, Bridget. After the scan, I couldn’t stop smiling. You’re carrying our baby boy and I have never felt prouder or happier. I am constantly thinking about—”

SHAGGING ME?

“—what I can do to help you—”

GET NAKED AND SHAG ME.

“—because it’s hard, really hard—”

OH, GOD! SHUT UP AND SHAG ME. 

“—raising a child. Single-handedly, I mean. You’re going to need—”

A SHAG.

“—help. Constant, willing, reliable help. Preferably, and most likely, of the day and night variety. The early days are very hard—”

I SWEAR HE’S DOING THIS ON PURPOSE.

“—on new parents, so I’m told, and these stairs are a nightmare; I simply cannot imagine you negotiating them while you carry our son after a day out shopping, for example. And how will you manage a child and go up and down with a pram or some other cumbersome and weighty item?”

SHAG FLASHBACK – GUESS WHAT, SHAZZER? MARK HAS A BIG PUPPET TOO. AND HE KNOWS HOW TO USE IT. NEED HIM TO USE IT ON ME TONIGHT.

“Right. Errrmmm . . .” I stalled, hoping my fairy shag-mother would appear in a puff of smoke and wave her magic wand over Mark's dick.

“Bridget, this is all something to consider, don’t you think?”

“Errrmmm . . .”

NO IDEA WHAT HE JUST SAID. BRAIN IS SO SHAG-FIXATED, ONLY THING I HEARD WAS ‘HARD’

Absently, I said: “Thank you, Mark. You’re always very hard.”

He looked puzzled so I decided to take the plunge. Here goes on Jack. Hashtag letsdothis!

“Mark, there’s something I have—”

“Oh shit!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his ringing phone. “Excuse me,” he said.

“Hello, Pierce . . . No problem . . . The Al Bashir case? But the procedure under The Hague Convention is the same for any country . . . Right . . . No, I’ll take another look at it.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, Bridget. A case requires my attention and I have to leave.”

He got up and walked towards the door. I followed behind, silently screaming in agony.

Mark retrieved his coat and as he opened the door, he turned to me, big, brown, pleading eyes locking deeply with mine. 

“You will give some thought to what I said, Bridget? It won’t be easy, it’s going to be hard.”

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE SHAG ME!

All I could do was nod, despite having no idea what he was talking about. I’d lost another opportunity to come clean to Mark about Jack and I didn’t even get a shag out of it.

********

**  
4.15 pm**

Ooooh goody, mobile’s ringing.

It’s my daily call from Mark Darcy.

“Hello,” I said, hugging a cushion to my body because his was unavailable.

“Hello, darling. How are my two worlds?”

“Our son is sleeping and I’m watching Miranda kick arse. She’s excellent.”

“Did you go out today? It was gloriously sunny a few hours ago.”

“I took Will to the market this morning. Had a lovely coffee.”

“Ah, jolly good. I hate to think of you cooped up in the flat in warm weather. Bridget, you are being careful on the stairs?”

“I’m running up and down them like Usain Bolt.”

“Bridget—”

“I’m joking! Stop fussing, Mark. We’re both fine and looking forward to our family day out tomorrow. Saturday is my favourite day of the week now.”

“Darling, it’s always been your favourite day of the week.”

“You’re forgetting Sun-shag-day. Remember? Long before Will, the very early years? We’d spend most of Sunday in bed. Here. We did that for months.”   

“The good old days. I hated going home after leaving your flat.”

“And after leaving my body.”

“I loved being inside both. I still love being inside both.”

I hugged the cushion even tighter. “Wait until I get my hands on you tonight,” I vowed.

“I wish I didn’t have to wait.”

Heard him sigh and decided to move the conversation to safer topics. Can’t have him distracted with thoughts of shagging me instead of being top barrister to his client.

“Hope the good weather continues,” I said.

“I hope so too. I’d rather take William out in sunshine.”

“How’s it going in court?”

“A protester’s right to freedom of expression and freedom of assembly. Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff. We’re adjourned until Monday so I’m on my way home. Need me to pick up anything?”

“Ben & Jerry’s for afters. I’m making chilli con carne for dinner.”

“Good God!” he exclaimed in utter terror as if I’d just asked him to wear a mankini outside Buckingham Palace. “I’d better buy more eggs,” he added.

“Very funny. Well, the yolk’s on you because this time, it actually smells like chilli.”

“If I don’t survive the first forkful, you should know that I love you and our son with every fibre of my being. I’ve also been rogering Jack behind your back and I’m the newest member of Poonani.”

“Oh, bugger off!” I said as he laughed.

**  
4.35 pm**

Chilli con carne simmering nicely. Recipe calls for 250ml of red wine, but am breastfeeding so there’s no wine. Bugger.

**4.37 pm**

What is 250ml anyway? How much is that? Why must cooking be like maths lesson? Why? Why? Whyyyyyyyyy?

**4.38 pm**

Will call Mum. She’ll know.

**4.39 pm**

Not calling Mum. She’ll think I’m a typically useless modern woman unable to cook a meal from scratch for her family. In comparison, her generation were slaves to the cooker who had their lives revolutionised by Delia Smith and the electronic speed control on the Kenwood Chef.

**4.45 pm**

I can do this. Am trained top news producer with a thriving baby who poos very regularly. No need to call anyone. Also, hurrah! Have found solution to lack of red wine.

A bottle of Una’s homemade red wine vinegar was hiding behind a bottle of olive oil. Would normally use half a bottle of wine and drink the rest so I reckon three full mugs of her red wine vinegar is about right.

Am cheating with the rice – have got Uncle Ben’s Express Spicy Mexican Rice which is microwavable so I can pop that in later. Have sneaking suspicion Mark will eat his words, as well as the chilli.

**5.15 pm**

Chilli’s finished cooking and lovely Will has gone back to sleep after waking up to give me a poo nappy to change. He’s a good baby – we’re very lucky.

Do babies dream? Talking of dreaming, don’t want to wake up from this lovely one where I’ve never been happier. If a dream, will probably wake to Mark Darcy staring adoringly at me.

He’s been doing what self always did ever since we left hospital.

Jude said it would stop when his paternity leave ended and everything went back to normal, but it’s been months and he’s still high on his love for us.

Earlier this week, after work, he went to the West End and bought himself a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans.

“Darling, you’re doing this mid-life crisis thing all wrong,” I joked. “Most men buy speedboats or Ferraris or some other form of penis extension.”

“Spend money on a penis extension when you extend mine for free? What a ridiculous notion,” he replied. “The jeans are for both of us, Bridget. I have a strong feeling you’ll approve.”

He put them on for me to see, pairing them with a black shirt. He was right.

Phwoar!

I was in the middle of making coffee, but the coffee was instantly forgotten.

“Our son’s having 40 winks and you look very shag-able so if you’re up for a quickie on . . .”

Red flag to a bull.

Mark lifted me into his arms and deposited me on the sofa.

As we kissed, we eased both the denim and his boxers downwards. As usual, it didn’t take me long to make him rock-hard and although I was happy to continue, Mark had other ideas so he carefully extricated himself from my mouth and hand.

“Don’t want . . .  to get too far . . .  ahead of you,” he breathed.

I smiled and ran my thumb over his lips. “Keep the jeans on,” I ordered.

“Jeans on, knickers off, tongue in,” he murmured as his hand pulled roughly at the lacy material on my hips, yanking them down with an urgency that took my breath away.

Mind is continually blown by this man still thought stuck-up and a bit of a cold fish by my Urban Family when, in actuality, underneath the surface is so much kindness and sweetness.

And also, so much mastery in bed. So much passion.  

Mesmerised, I kept my eyes firmly fixed on Mark as he ducked his head between my thighs and then I felt his tongue lapping, licking, sliding, entering . . . Mmmmmmm.

“I’m doomed to the most graphic of flashbacks every time I wear these jeans now.”   

Much later, shag-drunk and blissfully content, we lay in each other’s arms.

“They really enhance your gorgeous bottom.” My hands rubbed said gorgeous bottom.

“You’re still the only woman who has ever said that to me.”

“That’s why I get to shag you every night and they don’t,” I said as he laughed.

After a few more minutes had passed, I broke our embrace and pushed at him to let me off the sofa so that I could retrieve my knickers from the ficus.

In his haste to remove them, Mark had lobbed them in the air and they’d landed on the foliage.

**  
5.45 pm**

Oooooh, goody! Wig and gown-wearing totty is home.

“Christ, those bloody stairs!” he grumbled as he loosened his tie. Mark dropped his briefcase, strode over to me, lifted me off the sofa and kissed me. I felt his hands wandering down to my arse.

Now that we can have proper sex again (as opposed to doing everything but penetrative shagging), he’s even more randy these days.

It’s like living with a permanently horny teenage boy minus the acne. Not that self is complaining. Not. At. All.

“Is he . . .?” Mark gestured towards the baby monitor.

“Still sleeping,” I smiled. “My boobs are grateful for the rest.”

“From one Darcy maybe,” he said and waggled his eyebrows.

“Hah!” I replied as I moved away to fill the kettle. “Coffee?”

“Yes please. Won’t be a sec, I’m just going to change out of this suit. Oh, and Bridget?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I’m putting on my jeans,” he said before pretending to twirl a moustache like a villain out of a Charlie Chaplin movie. 

**  
7.05 pm**

Will woke just after six. I fed and winded and then handed him to Mark. Still can’t stand changing poo-nappies, but Mark isn’t fazed. He loves everything about being a dad – even changing dirty nappies.

“Our beautiful boy is sleeping,” he told me with the most contented of smiles as we sat down to eat.

“It’s chilli time. Ta-daaaah!” I sing-songed.

Mark gazed down at his plate. “This actually looks good.” He couldn’t keep the shock out of his voice.

“Oh ye of little faith,” I smugly responded.

“I have two words for you, my love: ‘blue’ and ‘soup’.”

“That’s three words,” I countered and poked my tongue out to him.

He chuckled and put a forkful of the chilli in his mouth, then immediately scrunched up his face.

“Delicious,” he said in a strained voice.

“You bloody liar!” I retorted. “What’s wrong with it?”

I tasted the chilli and immediately spat it back onto my plate.

Mark’s mouth twitched. He was trying not to laugh.

“The chilli’s a little . . . pungent,” he said. “But well done, darling. The rice tastes nice.”

“Oh shit. I probably used too much of Una’s red wine vinegar. And the rice isn’t even mine – it’s microwavable express Uncle Ben’s.”

“But you microwaved it to perfection, Bridget.”

“Three hours of cooking down the drain,” I huffed.

As usual, Mark took charge. “I absolutely will not have the breastfeeding mother of my son going without a nutritious meal. Is there any more of that Uncle Ben’s rice?”

Mark microwaved more rice and fried some frozen peas and beans. He mixed them together in the pan and poached some eggs which he placed on top of the rice.

It took him only 30 minutes to conjure up a delicious dinner; I spent three hours making acrid chilli.

Later, as we drank our coffee on the sofa, I decided it was time to clear away a few cobwebs.

“Are you ever going to tell me how you and Callaloo met?”

His brow furrowed. “Who?”

“Candida?”

“You know very well her name is Camilla,” he chided.

“Right. So are you ever going to tell me about her? How did you meet?”

He ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat. “It was a couple of months after our split. At The Hague. She was renowned for her advocacy. Fearsome reputation for handling civil liberties and human rights cases.”

“Just like you.”

“And very much not like you.”

“Was that the attraction?”

“I suppose it was. I can say that now with the passage of time.”

“I was gobsmacked when I heard you’d married again.”

He sighed. “I was feeling very sorry for myself. My parents had effortlessly clocked up well over 40 years of marriage whereas I’d reached a certain age a complete and utter failure in my personal life. My first marriage ended disastrously and when the love of my life walked away, I married the first woman who would have me.”

“Did she love you?”

“Yes, I suppose she did in her way. We thought we could make it work. And for a time, we did.”

“I’m glad you weren’t lonely, Mark.”

“I wasn’t alone, Bridget. But I was lonely. Camilla tried, but you’re a hard act to follow.”

“I missed you. Every day, every night.”

He reached out a hand and stroked my face. “I missed everything. Desperately. Our lovemaking, your awful cooking, your laughter, your illogical logic, the way you smell, your spontaneity, your lust for life, my lust for you. I missed waking up and wondering what life would throw at me that day because of my unpredictable fiancée.”

Mark exhaled. “I missed the daily calls - always at the most inopportune of times – and their utterly bizarre variation in topics: shag flashbacks, self-help books, OK! magazine, George Clooney, Downton Abbey . . . You know for years, I was the butt of Juan Garcia’s jokes.”

Seeing my puzzled face, he added: “The Mexican Ambassador who overheard one of your calls. Every time we met, he’d say: ‘Your bottom is still gorgeous, yes?’ I even missed being late for functions.”

I rubbed his leg. “If you’d sat through When Harry Met Sally with me, you’d have realised Cardamom was doomed to be your transitional person and not ‘the one’.”

“Camilla,” he corrected.

“Right.”

“We were both what each needed at the time. But when I saw you at Cleaver’s memorial service, I knew I’d been fooling myself.”

“Dear Daniel,” I sighed. “It was so decent of you to show up. We all said so. Such a surprise to see you there with your wife. Despite everything, I still loved you, Mark.”

“Even though you went back to Cleaver?”

He tried to mask it, but I could hear the bitterness and jealousy so I did my best to reassure him.

“It wasn’t like that. He filled a hole.”

“Oh, I bet he bloody did.”

“In my life, Mark. He filled a hole in my life. It wasn’t anything like what we had. Or have. It was just flirtation.”

I wasn’t surprised when he changed the subject.

“Who was that chap you were with at the memorial service?”

“What chap?” I frowned.

“The man sitting next to you. The man you were stroking and touching all over.”

“Oh, he was a complete stranger. I wasn’t with him. I just wanted you to think that I was.”

“You devious little cow,” he said admiringly.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Too well. I had the most tortuous thoughts of you naked with him. When I learned you were alone at the christening, it made me even more determined to end the night in your arms.”

“It’s actually ended with two Darcys in my arms.”

“And two Joneses in mine.”

He reached over for a kiss. We were back on happier ground.

“The night of the christening, Giles – who was more than a little squiffy - thanked me over and over again for taking Tom’s place. Given all that’s happened since, I should really be thanking him.”

“We should both thank Giles and Jude for the shag that produced our godchild because it also ended up producing our child.”

“Well, that and the dolphin-friendly condoms.”

“Does John Lewis sell ‘thanks for the shag’ cards? If not, we should suggest it as a new line. We could showcase our talents and write the verses, starting with the one for Giles and Jude: 'We thank you for your generous shag. Your shafting led to ours . . .’” I motioned with my hands to encourage his participation.

“C’mon, Mark! It needs the punchline. I’ll start again.”

“Bridget, this is silly. I’ve had a long day and I’m not going to indulge you.”

“Actually Mark, what’s silly is you saying no to me when we both know you’re going to do what I want in the end.”

“Not tonight, Josephine.”

I straddled his lap, put my arms around his neck and breathily said: “Mark, I’m really in the mood and your X-rated vocabulary makes me tingle all over.”

I could sense him weakening. He always does when I appeal to his libido.

“I’m like Wanda in A Fish Called Wanda, but instead of foreign accents, I get soooooo turned-on whenever my very right and proper Cambridge-educated darling uses filthy language.”

I shifted my head and nipped his earlobe. The response was instantaneous.

“Well in that case, E=fucking mc2 and ontogeny recapitulates fucking phylogeny," he said raggedly.

I felt his hands pulling up my skirt.

“So here we go again: ‘We thank you for your generous shag. Your shafting led to ours . . .’”

Mark looked at me and said: “We shagged . . . we came . . . we had a boy . . . so here’s some fucking flowers!”

Couldn’t help collapsing into giggles and the sound of Mark’s laughter soon joined mine.

“We should write it and send it. But first, oh poet laureate of the profane, our son is sleeping and all that talk of generous shags . . .”

Mark gently set me down onto the sofa before slipping his hands under my vest-top and moving his thumbs over my nipples. I felt him pull my top up and over my breasts. The rush of air hardened my nipples even more and as he lowered his mouth to one boob, his hand explored the other.

Placing my hands on his head, I arched upwards into the swirling, the sucking, the licking . . . Mmmmmm.

He lifted his head and smiled into my eyes. “The first ‘thanks for the shag’ card,” he said, “will be from me to you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Monday 29 June**

**3.45 pm. My flat.**

Am feeding my beautiful boy while watching Frasier reruns. Had a eureka moment earlier today: I’m going to propose to Mark Darcy tonight.

Looked down at Will and smiled. “The only person on this planet your Mummy and Daddy love more than each other is you.”

I bit into a custard cream and carried on talking to him. “I was only a few years older than you when I first met Daddy. I used to play in his paddling pool.”

I turned the TV down and continued. “When we met again as adults, we were both wearing naff clothes selected by your grandmas. I had on a carpet and Daddy wore a reindeer jumper that made him look like a twat. He was really bloody rude to me too so I dismissed him as a stuck-up bastard.”

Should self have another custard cream? Yes, self should. They’re small biscuits so no harm done.

**  
3.52 pm**

“Will, promise me you’ll never search for Bridget Jones fireman’s pole on YouTube because I made a complete arse of myself. I slid down the pole into the cameraman and my Brazil-sized bum ended up on national TV. Daddy saw and said he enjoyed my report very much. Pervy so-and-so.”

Last custard cream – no more after this one.

“Daddy changed all our lives that night when I was the sole singleton at a horrible dinner party of Smug Marrieds. Your Daddy, who had been hurt very badly in the past and isn’t always comfortable making emotional confessions, took the risk of opening his heart to a woman who wasn’t exactly fond of him at the time. ‘I like you very much, just as you are,’ he told me.”

OK – one more custard cream and then that’s it.

“Isn’t what Daddy said lovely, darling? From that night, I saw him in a different light. In its own way, what he said is just as poetic as anything Shakespeare or Keats wrote, and Mummy should know because I studied English at Bangor University. Daddy loves me for me, warts an’ all. Some people’s lives end without ever finding that. I’m incredibly lucky.”

I sighed. “I’ve put Daddy through some very testing times. Didn’t mean to – it just happened. He can tell you how he secured my release from prison in Thailand. And someday, you’re going to find out why Uncle Jack is friends with Mummy and Daddy. But through all the crap, Daddy’s love for me has never wavered. If anything, it’s grown stronger with every disaster. Not even a few years apart stopped him from loving me.”

I gently touched Will’s head. “When you’re older, I’m going to tell you how thrilled Daddy was when I told him I was pregnant. How desperately he wanted you. What he went through to compete for us. How he carried us through the streets of London when I went into labour – we nearly broke his arms.”

I glanced at the TV. “It’s humbling to be loved that much, sweetheart. For the longest time I’ve wanted to do something special to show Daddy how much I love him, how much he means to me. And that’s why I’m going to ask him to marry me. Besides, it’s the least I can do - I’ve ruined him for other women now. Just ask Camomile, wife number two.”

As I winded Will, I watched Niles Crane sniff the hair of an oblivious Daphne Moon.  

“I need your help later. After Mummy proposes to Daddy, we need time for a celebratory shag. Daddy’s like the Duracell Bunny with me so once will probably not be enough. And Mummy wants to ride him to within an inch of his life so try not to wake at the crucial moment, OK? And stop fighting the sleep, sweetheart. You’re a growing boy and you need your rest.”

**4.25 pm**

Ooooh goody, mobile’s ringing. Daily call from the sex-god I’m going to marry.

“Hello.”

“Hello, darling. How are my two worlds?”

I smiled down the phone. “Your son had a feed and now he’s sleeping. How’s it going in court? Are we winning?”

“Comfortably. Need me to bring anything in?”

“No, just bring yourself. I’m ordering a takeaway tonight. Fancy a Chinese?”

“No, I’m a one-woman man,” he quipped.

“Hah! Fell right into that one.”

He chuckled. “Yes, you did. By the way, the estate agent called. Wanted to know what we thought of the house.”

“It’s perfect. We should put in an offer before someone else snaps it up.”

“In a way, it’s a shame. I’ve always loved your flat. It’s warm and cosy.”

“You moan about the stairs every bloody night!” I exclaimed.

“But the flat itself is charming. And full of happy memories.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “I wish we could live here forever too, but we’ll make even more happy memories in our new house.”

“Of course we will.”

“Spoke to Mum today. Parish council meeting ended in a big row over the closure of The Red Lion.”

“Ah, somewhat inevitable. However, it is a crying shame so many spit-and-sawdust style village pubs are falling victim to the property boom.”

“Don’t be surprised if it crops up when we visit the grandmas this weekend.”

“Good lord. Is it too late to cancel?”

“I wish. See you soon.”

“Bye, darling.”

 

**4.55 pm**

Have decorated the flat as best as I can. Don’t have flowers, but do have some balloons. Don’t have a ring either, but do have varying sizes of silver hooped earrings – one of the hoops will just have to suffice as a temporary ring until we can make this more formal.

Have no idea what I’m going to say apart from ‘Mark Darcy, will you marry me?’

Scribbled down a few ideas earlier.

‘With you by my side, I know now why The Beatles sang, All You Need Is Love.’ Yuck.

‘With you by my side, I know now why Madonna sang, Crazy For You.’ Double yuck.

‘Your love for me is the fulfilment of an amazing dream.’ Urgh. What fucking crap.

‘I’ve kissed a lot of frogs, but now I’ve found my prince.’ Cheesier than a Camembert factory.

‘You’re so sweet and kind and hot and nobody puts Mark Darcy in a corner.’ Haha! Almost wish I could use that one, but he’d have no idea what I’m talking about. Would have to explain Dirty Dancing to him. 

Oh fuck! I don’t know what I’m going to say. No wonder he’s taking his time to ask – this is so bloody difficult.

**5.05 pm**

Going to take the balloons down and wait for Mark to propose instead.

**5.16 pm**

Leaving the balloons where they are. Going ahead with the proposal.

**5.20 pm**

Have ordered the Chinese.

**5.27 pm**

Still have no idea what I’m going to say when I propose.

Have put on the dress I wore to the christening. Am not buttoning it up because it took him too long to unfasten even the few needed to slip the dress over my head.

This time, I want Mark to have quick and easy access to all the goodies. Besides, even unbuttoned, dress is a bit of a tight squeeze in the bust area. My boobs have swelled to Australia. Not that Mark’s complaining – he loves them even more.

Can’t understand how Mark ended up with boob-less stick insects like Natasha and Carambola when he’s such a massive boob man. I know both women are very clever lawyers, but that can't be the only—

Ooooooh, sudden graphic post-birth shag flashback! Into my head popped a vision of Mark’s mouth on my boobs followed by an explosive orgasm courtesy of his fingers and several blissful minutes of clitoral action. Mmmmmm.

Have brushed hair and applied a little make-up.

**5.50 pm**

Key in the lock! He’s home. Omigod. Omigod. Omigod. No idea how to ask him to marry me. Nervous as hell. Wish I still smoked.

“Christ, those never-ending stairs!” he grumbled as he dropped his briefcase, shook off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. “I mean, really! Who in the name of arse designed this building? Fucking idiot.”

Mark walked over to me, lifted me off the sofa and kissed me. I felt his hands wandering over my back.

“The dress you wore to the christening. Niiiiiiiiiiiiice,” he murmured appreciatively.

“You remembered,” I smiled.

“How can I ever forget? Never took my eyes off you that day; I think I know every dart and stitch. And the less said about the wretched buttons, the better.” His arms tightened around me as we kissed again.

When we broke apart, he sat down on the sofa.

I stood nervously before him. “Thought it would be fitting for a special day.” Now, I told myself. Ask him now. “Mark, we’ve—”   

He glanced away from the television to look at me. “Darling, I know it’s the first visit since William’s birth, but we’re going to Grafton Underwood this weekend, not Royal Ascot. No need to wear anything special. Casual attire will do.”

“I know. But that’s not—”

He cocked an ear. “Did you hear that? What was that sound?”

“I didn’t hear anything. Mark, there’s—”

He looked up and around. “What are all these balloons for? Is this something to do with William? An anniversary of his recorded in your diary? First time he burped perhaps? Or smiled? First poo-nappy you willingly changed?”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that.”

He stared in the direction of the baby monitor. “William out for the count?”

“Yes. But Mark, the balloons and this dress are—”

Buzzzzzzzzzz! The intercom interrupted my flow.

“You sit. I’ll get it,” Mark commanded. He strode over and picked up the entryphone. “Hello? Ah yes, I’ll be right down.” He replaced the phone and glanced at his watch.

“It’s the takeaway. Won’t be a sec.”

As he exited the flat, I let out a torrent of swear words that would make a sailor blush.

My nerves felt as if they were being put through a paper shredder. I tried to compose myself as I heard his footsteps again. 

“Bloody interminable stairs! This smells good. I’ll dish up,” he said as he walked over to the kitchen and busied himself plating up the food.

I trailed behind him trying to work out the best way to propose.

“Mark, I want—”

“The food? Some sex? I’ll be as quick as I can, darling. Quick with the food, obviously. Not the sex. One spring roll or two?” He looked back at me and smiled.

“Two. Mark?” I said staring at his shirt-covered back.

“Two? Crikey. You really must be hungry. Amazing the effect breastfeeding has on appetite. Rather selfish of me I know, but I do hope your boobs stay this size forever.”

He picked up the plates and a couple of forks and turned around just as I got down on one knee.

“Darling Mark, I hate changing poo-nappies and I still can’t cook you a decent meal, but I love you with all my heart. Always have, always will. You’re an excellent father and the best shag I’ve ever had. Will you marry me, Mark Darcy?”

The next sound I heard was the plates smashing as they crashed on to the floor.

**6.27 pm**

**Five seconds later**

“Oh shit!” he cried as he grabbed the kitchen towel, pulled off reams and reams of sheets and started cleaning up the mess. “What a bloody stupid arse.”

I was still on my knee. “Errrrrm . . . Is that a yes?”

At that moment, the unmistakeable sound of Will crying came over the baby monitor.

I got up off the floor and sprinted over to the nursery. “There, there. Mummy’s here now. Mummy’s here,” I said as I reached for him.

I changed his nappy and put him down for a sec so that I could slip my arms out of my dress. After picking Will back up, I sat in my Luca Glider, unhooked the clip for my nursing bra, arranged him on the feeding pillow and cradled him to my breast.

After a couple of minutes, I looked up and there was Mark, misty-eyed, watching us with a tender expression on his face.

“Yes,” he said, walking over to kiss me lovingly on the lips. “Of course I’ll marry you. It’s about time you made an honest man of me, Bridget Jones. And not just because we’re the talk of Grafton Underwood; Mother and Father have dropped enough hints to sink an armada. You look so beautiful feeding our son. I’m the happiest man alive. Just going to phone for more Chinese - that was all rather a bit of a shock.”   

I smiled down at our child. “When you’re older, Mummy’s got yet another story to tell you.”

**8.03 pm**

Mark and I sat on the sofa mooning over each other like a couple of lovesick teenagers.

“I have to look down a very long way just to see cloud nine,” he said in the middle of our snogging session.  

“I’m so glad you’re happy because I’ve never been happier.”

He touched my face. “Darling, what you did tonight was the most wonderful proposal there has ever been in the history of proposals.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”

I snuggled up to him. “When Kanye West proposed, he surprised Kim Kardashian on her birthday at a stadium. The jumbotron read, ‘please marry me’ and he held out a 15-carat engagement ring.”

“Your proposal was better. And who is Kim Kardashian?”

I did a double take. “Wait-a-minute! You know who Kanye West is?”

“He’s the artist who criticised President George Bush after Hurricane Katrina, is he not? As I recall, he accused Bush of not caring about black people and it made headlines around the world.”

“So that’s how you know who Kanye West is. Well, Prince William asked Kate Middleton to marry him in a log cabin in Africa.”

He put his arm around my shoulder. “Very romantic. However, I still place your proposal above that rather outstanding effort from our future king.”

“But mine was a disaster! It didn’t go how I wanted at all. You dropping chicken chow mein all over the floor in shock wasn’t in the script. Now I know how you felt years ago when you were going to propose and I took the wind out of your sails.”

“Darling Bridget, if I’m stripped naked and dumped in the Arctic Circle, the memory of your proposal will keep me warm for decades.”

I smiled. “Hold out your left hand.” I reached for my little jewellery box and perused the contents. “This was so spur-of-the-moment, you’re going to have to wear an earring on your hand.”

The first hooped earring was too small, but the next one I selected looked as if it would fit his third finger.

“You don’t have to keep this on for long.” I glanced at the telly. “You can take it off after EastEnders.”

“I’m keeping my earring-ring, Bridget. I hope you have no intention of wearing this pair ever again.”

I slid the earring up his finger. “I don’t know why, but that felt incredibly sexy,” I told him.

Our eyes met. We smiled at each other and started kissing again. When we came up for air, Mark beamed. “I’m engaged,” he said.

“I was waiting for you to ask me to marry you again. But then I realised I was only waiting because of convention and I decided there was no need to wait.”

“It never occurred to me that you would propose first. I was so sure you were waiting for me and would carry on doing so. No wonder I’m still in shock.”

“Good thing you’re man enough to not feel emasculated because I proposed first.”

He laughed. “I had every intention of proposing six months after my decree absolute. I reasoned enough water would have passed under the bridge of yet another failed marriage so July would have been D-Day.”

He stood up. “Excuse me for a minute.”

I nodded and turned my attention to the telly.

A couple of minutes later, I heard Mark’s approaching footsteps and looked up. And then I started giggling.

“Not even you can make that reindeer jumper sexy,” I sniggered.

“But I can make it romantic,” he countered as he plopped back down on the sofa.

“How can you make it romantic when that rude reindeer is giving me side-eye?”

He chuckled at that. “Bridget, the fact that I still have the jumper I was wearing when I met you again, years after you played naked in my paddling pool, is in itself romantic.”

He grasped my hand and placed it over his heart. “I can’t look at this jumper without thinking of you. After you left and all through my relationship with Camilla, this jumper, this unlikely reminder of my love for you, remained with me.”

Moved and momentarily lost for words, I stroked his arm. “Well. That told me. The reindeer jumper is now incredibly romantic. I may even wear one myself one day.”

“Bridget, I was going to propose this weekend in Grafton Underwood. But tonight has been so perfect, we should just put the icing on the cake.”

Mark dug into his pocket. “Talking of ice . . .” He pulled out a diamond ring and held it in front of me.

My hands flew to my mouth. It was either that or scream aloud and wake Will. He kept it! My eyes watered as I recognised my old Tiffany-set solitaire. Alongside my keys to his house, it was the last thing I gave back when I left him.

But he kept it.

He kept my ring while he was dating Cameroon. He kept it during their engagement and marriage. He kept it when Jack’s condom lie seemingly destroyed both his dream of fatherhood and hope of a life with me. He kept it. He kept my ring.

Am stunned.

“I can’t possibly hope to top your proposal, with its smashed crockery, spilled chicken chow mein and hooped earring-ring which I am now very proudly wearing on my left hand,” he said. “But here goes.”

Mark got off the sofa and went down on one knee as I blinked back tears.

“Bridget Jones, mother of our beautiful boy, love of my life who still cannot cook, but whom I continue to love deeply for all that you are and were and always will be, will you marry me?”

“Try and stop me!” I jubilantly exclaimed.

He slid the ring up my finger and we kissed tenderly.

When we broke apart, I grinned: “I hope you realise I’m going to continue cooking meals you’ll have to rescue.”

Mark sat back down on the sofa. “I’d rather eat incredible shit with you than gourmet meals without you. And believe me, I know whereof I speak.”

“Steel yourself for Mum’s reaction on Saturday.”

He shrugged. “After what I went through last year, she’s child’s play.”

“One way or another, we’re going to have an eventful weekend.”

“So it would seem.” He kissed the palm of my left hand and enfolded me in a tight embrace. “We’re destined to remain the talk of Grafton Underwood for some time to come.”

Felt so good in his arms. I breathed in deeply, filling my nostrils with his scent – an intoxicating mixture of his aftershave and him. Mmmmm.

“Mark, I had a really graphic shag flashback today.”

“Really?” he replied. “Fancy re-enacting it now?” 

I stretched for the remote control and turned off the TV. Mark stood, handed me the baby monitor and then effortlessly lifted me off the sofa and into his arms.

He carried me into the bedroom and put me on the bed before moving away to switch on the lamp and quickly strip off his clothes.

While the reindeer jumper was being folded and carefully replaced in the chest of drawers, I put the baby monitor on the bedside table and looked at the ring weighing down my left hand.

“It’s been a wonderful day.” I sighed dreamily.

“I hope our son lets us have a wonderful night.”

“Me too because I’m very ready for round one. And I can’t wait for round two and three and four and more.”

Dressed only in his boxers, he joined me on the bed. “So I’m the best you’ve ever had?”

Mark was glowing so much from that, I could have fried eggs and bacon on his torso.

“You sound pleased, Mr Darcy,” I answered coquettishly as he pulled me on top of him and kissed me.

“Well, you’re easily mine. But I had stiff competition,” he replied, fondling my bum. 

“Pretty stiff,” I agreed. “But you’re the one I fake not having orgasms with. The only one ever because I always want more of you - even after I’ve come.”

“Crikey,” he said and kissed me deeply. “I’m flattered and honoured.”   

Fingers slowly traced my spine all the way down and then his hands were pulling up the dress. I manoeuvred myself so that he could slip it over my head and place it on the chair next to the bed.

“Now I know why you wore this dress, and why you left it unbuttoned,” he said softly as he unclasped my bra and threw it on the chair. “My beautiful Bridget.”

An impatient hand tugged at my knickers so I lifted my body to aid their removal.

After flinging my underwear on the floor, Mark moved on top of me. I felt feather-light kisses on my face and body and then eager hands on my boobs, followed by his mouth. 

As we kissed passionately, couldn’t resist sliding my hands inside his boxers and massaging his arse.

I was quickly rewarded when I felt him hard against my stomach. Mmmmmmm.

The boxers were removed, folded in record time and put on the chair. When he reached for me again, everything grew more fevered – our kisses, our caresses, our endearments.

Increasingly turned-on by our moans and muffled cries, I heard him shudder out my name as we each fervently strove to satisfy the other.

Deep inside me didn’t feel deep enough and Mark’s heart was beating wildly against mine as I breathlessly urged him on.

And then a deeper, harder thrust got me there. But I still wanted more so I tried to hide my orgasm from him.

“Bridget,” Mark gasped, pausing mid-thrust.

“Yes?” I breathily replied.

“Are you faking it with me?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he smiled and carried on.

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> I had some geographical nitpicks with BJB - a fit woman would struggle to walk from Borough to Ealing, let alone a pregnant one. They really should’ve shown her getting out a taxi in Ealing.  
> And Albert Bridge in Chelsea/Battersea, whilst pretty and a favourite with film-makers, is very unlikely to figure in a journey to hospital from Borough. I know it’s a movie and we have to suspend disbelief, but as a Londoner, it’s harder for me!
> 
> Despite some other general nitpicks (birthday changed from November, Mark's age changed etc), overall I really enjoyed BJB. I’m glad it redeemed the franchise after the hugely disappointing Edge Of Reason. However, even at a two-hour running time, it wasn’t long enough for me. 
> 
> I wanted more of everything, especially those deleted scenes from the christening with Mark and Bridget. It’s a shame we lost those because they really accentuated the sexual tension between them.
> 
> I wanted a scene where we actually get Bridget telling Shazzer and Tom about sleeping with Mark. I would’ve loved to see their reaction. I guess the next best thing was to write my version of that conversation, which is how this entire story started. 
> 
> I also wish we could have had a scene in which Mark showed up at Bridget’s flat earlier in her pregnancy, as Jack did.  
> Again – ended up writing what I envisioned, with Mark’s attempt to woo Bridget being, I hope, typically Mark for where they were at that time.
> 
> Baby Will's nickname is deliberate as I want to totally differentiate between movies universe and book universe - that's why he's not called Billy.
> 
> If you YouTube 'Kenwood Chef A703C', you'll see the sort of Kenwood Chef from the late 1970s that I mentioned in the story. I'm sure Pamela Jones used one. Other British references, such as News At Ten, EastEnders or Delia Smith, are just a Google search away. 
> 
> On a personal level, I now feel like crying every time I hear Annie Lennox’s The Hurting Time and the slow-mo walk / sex scene to Reignite was brilliantly done - but the latter was a little too short for me. So hot.


End file.
